December 19: An Almanac, a Carol, and the Last Moon Men
December 19 brings us three moments when words inspired millions and astronauts completed humanity's boldest adventure. On this day, a printer launched a publishing phenomenon that shaped American character, a novelist penned a holiday tale that redefined Christmas itself, and the last humans to walk on another world splashed down in the Pacific Ocean. These stories remind us that human achievement takes many forms—from the wisdom we share to the worlds we dare to explore.
Poor Richard's Wisdom
On December 19, 1732, Benjamin Franklin published the first edition of Poor Richard's Almanack under the pseudonym Richard Saunders, a humble Philadelphia printer. For the price of a few pennies, colonists could purchase a year's worth of weather predictions, astronomical calculations, and—most memorably—witty aphorisms that distilled practical wisdom into memorable phrases. "Early to bed and early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise." "A penny saved is a penny earned." Franklin's maxims became the moral currency of colonial America, shaping values of thrift, industry, and self-improvement that would define the emerging American character.
For 25 years, Franklin published Poor Richard's Almanack, selling an average of 10,000 copies annually—a publishing sensation in an era when few colonists owned books beyond the Bible. The almanac's success made Franklin wealthy enough to retire from printing at 42 and devote himself to science, diplomacy, and revolution. But his greatest legacy wasn't his experiments with electricity or his role in founding a nation—it was democratizing wisdom itself, proving that profound truths need not be complex and that common people could access the knowledge needed to improve their lives. Poor Richard taught Americans to be pragmatic, ambitious, and self-reliant, values that would fuel a revolution and build a republic. Franklin understood that a nation's character is forged not just through grand declarations but through the daily habits and homespun wisdom ordinary people live by.
A Ghost Story for Christmas
One hundred eleven years after Franklin's first almanac, on December 19, 1843, Charles Dickens published A Christmas Carol in London. Written in just six weeks and priced affordably so working families could purchase it, the slim novella told the story of Ebenezer Scrooge, a miserly businessman visited by three spirits who show him visions of Christmas past, present, and yet to come. Dickens wrote the tale partly as social commentary—criticizing Victorian England's treatment of the poor—but his genius lay in wrapping moral instruction in unforgettable storytelling. Scrooge's transformation from heartless miser to generous benefactor became literature's most famous redemption arc, proving that change is always possible and that it's never too late to choose compassion.
A Christmas Carol didn't just become a beloved story—it transformed Christmas itself. Dickens revived traditions of holiday charity and family celebration that had been fading, making Christmas less about religious solemnity and more about generosity, warmth, and human connection. The book's initial printing of 6,000 copies sold out by Christmas Eve, and Dickens would read the story aloud to audiences for the rest of his life, reducing crowds to tears at Scrooge's redemption. The tale endures because it speaks to universal truths: that wealth without compassion impoverishes the soul, that we're all connected to one another, and that the greatest gift we can give is recognizing the humanity in those around us. Every December, when we encounter yet another adaptation of Scrooge's journey, we're reminded that transformation begins with opening our hearts—a message as relevant today as it was in 1843.
The Last Moonwalkers Come Home
One hundred twenty-nine years after Dickens published his Christmas classic, on December 19, 1972, the Apollo 17 command module splashed down in the Pacific Ocean, bringing astronauts Eugene Cernan, Ronald Evans, and Harrison Schmitt safely home from humanity's final Apollo mission to the Moon. Three days earlier, Cernan had become the last human to leave footprints in lunar dust, ascending the ladder of the lunar module and declaring, "We leave as we came, and God willing, as we shall return, with peace and hope for all mankind." No one knew then that those words would mark not a brief pause but the end of an era—that over five decades later, no human has returned.
Apollo 17 represented both triumph and denouement. Cernan and Schmitt—the only geologist to walk on the Moon—spent three days conducting the most scientifically productive lunar mission, driving 22 miles in the Lunar Rover and collecting 243 pounds of samples. Yet even as they worked, public interest had waned and budget cuts had already canceled Apollo 18, 19, and 20. The Moon race, born of Cold War competition, ended not with fanfare but with quiet efficiency. Apollo 17's return marked humanity's retreat from its boldest frontier, proof that political will and public enthusiasm are as essential to exploration as rockets and courage. Yet the mission left an indelible legacy: twelve Americans walked on another world, expanding human experience beyond Earth and demonstrating that impossible dreams, with enough determination and resources, can become reality—even if only briefly. Cernan's last footprints remain undisturbed in airless silence, waiting for the day humans return to finish what Apollo began.
